t your discomfiture,
then, must resound in your ear even to-day."

"Yes; but for the moment laughter is on our side. Still we are willing
to forego even that pleasure, if Sir Percy will but move a finger
towards his own freedom."

"Again some infamous letter?" she asked with bitter contempt; "some
attempt against his honour?"

"No, no, Lady Blakeney," he interposed with perfect blandness. "Matters
are so much simpler now, you see. We hold Sir Percy at our mercy.
We could send him to the guillotine to-morrow, but we might be
willing--remember, I only say we might--to exercise our prerogative of
mercy if Sir Percy Blakeney will on his side accede to a request from
us."

"And that request?"

"Is a very natural one. He took Capet away from us, and it is but
credible that he knows at the present moment exactly where the child is.
Let him instruct his followers--and I mistake not, Lady Blakeney, there
are several of them not very far from Paris just now--let him, I say,
instruct these followers of his to return the person of young Capet to
us, and not only will we undertake to give these same gentlemen a safe
conduct back to England, but we even might be inclined to deal somewhat
less harshly with the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel himself."

She laughed a harsh, mirthless, contemptuous laugh.

"I don't think that I quite understand," she said after a moment or
two, whilst he waited calmly until her out-break of hysterical mirth
had subsided. "You want my husband--the Scarlet Pimpernel, citizen--to
deliver the little King of France to you after he has risked his life
to save the child out of your clutches? Is that what you are trying to
say?"

"It is," rejoined Chauvelin complacently, "just what we have been saying
to Sir Percy Blakeney for the past six days, madame."

"Well! then you have had your answer, have you not?"

"Yes," he replied slowly; "but the answer has become weaker day by day."

"Weaker? I don't understand."

"Let me explain, Lady Blakeney," said Chauvelin, now with measured
emphasis. He put both elbows on the table and leaned well forward,
peering into her face, lest one of its varied expressions escaped
him. "Just now you taunted me with my failure in Calais, and again
at Boulogne, with a proud toss of the head, which I own is excessive
becoming; you threw the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel in my face like a
challenge which I no longer dare to accept. 'The Scarlet Pimpernel,' you
would say to me, '